


Necromancin Dancin

by robinlikeitshot



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Forced Marriage, Lazarused Timmy, M/M, Marriage, Non con kissing, Possession, Rituals, Temporary Character Death, Waterboarding, Wedding, also feral tim, but like, ra's just being a generally bad dude, ras having creepy obsession with tims blood, rating is for fucked uped ness, sad tim, through magic, tim wears a dress, uhh, unbetaed we die like tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28426596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinlikeitshot/pseuds/robinlikeitshot
Summary: “You aremine,” he snarls, and he can practically see the flash of realization pass in his Detective’s brilliant mind, that the blood flowing through his veins, the blood Ra’s can still taste on his teeth, hasboundhim. That the compulsion cannot be broken so long as he is alive—and Ra’s is the demon who has tamed death itself.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Comments: 4
Kudos: 94





	Necromancin Dancin

**Author's Note:**

> so, mind the tags ppl please, theyre there for a reason  
> anyhow, i saw art and brain went yes.so i spent way too much time making This. it is currently 2 am, so i mayhaps link art tomrow  
> also idk about the title i \ts dumb but i have like one and a half braincell total rn  
> uhhhh might edit this later lol, but fOR now;  
> enjoy!!

The cloth is soft, sliding against his skin, but it settles heavily against his shoulders, weighing down at his hips. Tim notes that it’s probably at least fifteen pounds, with the multiple layers of fabric tangled around his legs, golden embroidery and pearls stitched into seams. 

It makes walking a right chore, especially when one of the assistants dressing him places a long heavy veil over his crown, blanketing him from the top of his hair to the bottom of his neck. It’s gauzy, just sheer enough that he can make out shapes, but not enough that he can actually _see_ anything.

Though he supposes that’s the point, Ra’s excuses of ‘tradition’ weak with the bone-white gown he’d been dressed in; when Tim’d asked why he’d chosen the color, the man had stroked his cheek and murmured sweetly that the bride’s Western traditions should also be honored.

(That had immediately prompted Tim to ask if Bruce was going to be called to hand him off. Ra’s had backhanded him, before stroking his bruised cheeks and murmuring pacifications about how if only Tim _behaved_ —)

As it is, the man that is to take his hand is one of high ranking, dressed in Ra’s traditional ninja garb, with slight accents to signify his position. He doesn’t look at Tim as he waits by the door to escort him, and so Tim doesn’t pay him any attention either as he attempts to struggle into the shoes set before him.

Two assistants have to hold him so he doesn’t instantly topple over, but he eventually manages to get them on. He notices, with especial regret, that they give him no height whatsoever. 

Tim thinks he’s finished after that, because he _has_ been being worked over for the last _five hours_ , but he’s stopped by another assistant, who opens a box—more of a chest really—to reveal—

“No,” Tim says, with as much authority as possible. The ninja raises their eyebrow beneath their mask before pulling out the _golden ropes_ of pearl and ruby strings, and really Ra’s, what the _fuck_.

The ninja pulls the, apparently necklace, beneath his veil, getting to work affixing it to his dress even as he makes a face at the feel of metal being pushed into his fresh piercings (all four of them). _”Why”_ , because at this point he’s been reduced to one-word expressions of horror.

“Compliments the henna,” a voice to the left of him says, probably belonging to one of the sixteen assistants that were apparently needed to stick him in a dress and slap on some scented mud. 

Ten minutes and an additional eight pounds later, Tim’s ready. One of the ninja—Tim’s decided to call him George, because the smell of the henna even after it had been scrubbed off his skin was still getting to his head—rolled a mirror in front of him. He’s not sure _why_ , it’s not like he’s the one making the final decision on his outfit here, but he suspects it has something to do with Ra’s wanting to rub the humiliation in as much as possible.

He looks absolutely ridiculous, is Tim’s second thought upon finally seeing himself (the first thought being that he looks _pretty_ , which he promptly stuffs into a box and throws that box into his metaphorical Gotham harbor). Even with the white veil blanketing his eyes, he still winces slightly as the desert sun streaming from the window catches on the gold embroidery, the jewels dripping from his skin. It’s eye-catching, flashy, and so goddamn _Ra’s_ , it makes him want to throw up. 

He would, but the last time he did they’d had to spend an extra thirty minutes on his face, and George doesn’t have very nice breath. So instead he just turns around on unsteady feet, again having to be caught by two assistants that honestly deserved a pay raise at this point.

They only let go of him once he reaches his escort, who Tim decides to name Felipe. The man takes his arm stiffly, still not looking at him, and says, “I am Matan.” Well, shoot.

Pausing for a second to appreciate the irony (because Tim may be covered in jewels from the diamonds braided into his hair to the rubies adorning his ankles, but in no way is he _free_ ), Tim nods, though he’s altogether certain that the man can’t actually see anything other than a bunch of rustling white fabric. “Uh, hi, Matan. I’m Timothy—um, you can just call me Tim, though. Rolls off the tongue easier.” He attempts a small laugh. The man’s face doesn’t twitch.

“Come along, عروسة”. _Well, fuck you very much too_ , Tim thinks, trying to keep up with the man’s pace to avoid being dragged through the door. He’s already had enough of that to last him for the rest of his life, thank you.

The halls are the standard of most of Ra’s bases, but as they speed walk closer to the base where, Tim assumes, the wedding will happen, the decor slowly shifts. The earthen undertones give way to bright tapestries and hanging clothes, the heavy scent of incense overshadowing even the smell of the henna crawling and twisting up his neck. There are candles, scattered amongst the petals on the ground, and Tim has to hike up his skirts to try and avoid setting himself on fire. Matan doesn’t slow down though, so eventually Tim gives up and decides that at least this way he’d go out before Ra’s married him.

Sadly, though, he doesn’t catch on fire. Tim wouldn’t have put it above Ra’s to have made the fabric fireproof, though, so it’s certainly not for lack of trying. 

They finally reach the great double doors, guarded by two enormous blood-red flower arrangements and two ninjas, who pull them open silently. Tim, trying not to get his dress caught in the door (because really, Ra’s? Did the dress _have_ to have a seven-foot train?), trips on the very, very conveniently placed flower in the middle of the pathway. His escort catches him right before he hits the floor, pulling him up a shit ton more gently than he had when Tim had stumbled while they were alone.

Because they were very, very much not alone. Tim thinks there are probably about three hundred ninja and various guests on the ground floor, but the decorated walls have whispers and near-silent footsteps running behind them, slits in the concrete for the viewers. Overall, Tim estimates there to be roughly six hundred people that just watched him trip and fall in a dress, before having to be helped up by a man who Tim is pretty sure would rather be anywhere else. Hell, Tim _commiserates_.

The feeling doubles when he finally looks up, peering through the veil, to catch Ra’s sparkling poison eyes. The man’s lips curl up, as if he knows Tim is looking at him. Swallowing back the dryness in his throat as the music starts up, Tim reminds himself, through the layers of white, the pearls, the _bride_ , he still has his mind, even if this becomes the mission that makes him give up his body.

So he walks, Matan’s gait having slowed considerably, which makes Tim blush when he tries to walk faster (thankfully no one can see, but Ra’s smile still grows). He’s led over to a large stone bench, pressed down on it with a subtle yet heavy pressure on his shoulder. Tim gives Matan an equally subtle finger when he leaves Tim to join Ra’s at the altar. 

The second he’s left alone, Tim flicks back the veil off his face, so that he can properly glare at Ra’s without any hinderances. The ninjas near him give him surreptitious glances, but when Ra’s doesn’t do anything but give him an indulgent smile, they back off. 

When the League officiant begins reciting vows in Classical Arabic, Tim takes a relieved breath (the corset makes it a bit difficult, but he makes do). Because if Ra’s is doing this the traditional way, then that means Tim actually has a chance.

He listens to the words, most falling flat on his ears since he’d only gotten around to learning the standard form, but Tim understands enough that he knows when the moment will come, the moment Ra’s eyes will glow even brighter than they are now, when the word ‘نعم’ will fall from Matan’s mouth. The moment Ra’s will gain public approval, and the bubbling green pit will fill Tim’s lungs, cloud every sense he has—

No. No, this’ll work out. It has to—it _will_. Tim stands, the white cloth falling back around him to frame his figure. He doesn’t attempt to walk, doesn’t have to, with how the assembly’s eyes immediately turn to him, Ra’s, in particular, looking more amused than the concerned Tim had been hoping for. But he doesn’t have the time for doubts, so he lets an easy smile cross his face, voice calm and level when he speaks.

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” he asks, mildly. Whispers begin rolling out through the crowd, some confused, some angry, but Ra’s just lifts one hand and it silences. 

The man’s own pleasant smile hasn’t moved when he replies, “And whatever could that be, beloved? Do hurry, I am sure we are all ready for the celebrations to begin.” Ignoring the leer, Tim doesn’t let any of the turmoil show on his face as he shuffles a tiny step closer.

“My مهر.” No one laughs at his pronunciation, but it’s probably not for lack of want.

“Oh?” Ra’s says, in that way that makes Tim want to punch him in the face. He would, but it’s probably a bad idea when he’s so heavily surrounded by enemies. “And what would you ask for, beloved?”

The name makes Tim want to fist his hands beneath the long cloth, but he grits his teeth and continues. “You said I was your only equal?” Not that Tim believes one word of it, of course, given by how Ra’s was standing in a dignified green robe and Tim was shrouded in a white dress, not even giving his own vows. “Then I want half your empire. Half your assets, half your contacts, half your armies. If I’m to be your equal, then I want proof.”

To Tim’s growing trepidation, Ra’s just smiles warmly at him. He takes a half-step back, bumping into the bench when Ra’s says, “Then you shall have it, and more; my entire empire will be at your hands when you are sworn to be mine, beloved.”

Tim sits back down. The ceremony continues, but Tim’s mind has screeched to a resounding halt. That was supposed to work. Ra’s should never have agreed to that, much less to giving away his whole kingdom. Hell, the last time Tim had gotten even the slightest access to it, he’d blown up his Cradle! What was the man _doing_ —

He’s pulled out of his head when he sees Matan and Ra’s hands unjoin, signaling the vow’s completion. Huh. So he’s married now. Strange, he doesn’t feel any different. 

Tim’s still hazy when Matan pulls him back up, pulling him over to Ra’s. He stumbles again (fuck, if he isn’t getting tired of that), and Ra’s takes the opportunity to catch him by the elbows. Tim deadpans, considers sticking his tongue out before ultimately ruling it out in case the man takes it as an invitation.

“Timothy…” the man murmurs, and Tim turns his head lest he becomes sick again looking at Ra’s smile. He’s not having it though, holding Tim’s chin and dragging him back. “Oh Timothy, don’t you look positively delightful.”

The layers prevent him from getting his arms up fast enough, and Ra’s is able to pin them up against his body when he’s dragged somehow closer. A hand on the back of his head stops him from jerking back when Ra’s lips finally press against his own.

The worst part, Tim thinks, eyes closed in an altogether useless attempt to avoid the gaze of their audience, is that Ra’s is a _good_ kisser. Much as he tries to resist, eventually his lips part, allowing Ra’s entry as one possessive hand moves to wrap around his waist, the other going from gripping his jaw to pressing ever so lightly into his neck.

When the man finally pulls back, Tim gasps for air, color staining his cheeks. Ra’s gives a soft chuckle, tracing the blush with the pads of his fingers. “You look beautiful in white, Detective,” he purrs, right up against Tim’s lips, capturing them again. His head feels even foggier now, he can barely think, much less come up with a _plan_ , and when the man shifts back slightly, thumbing swollen, slack lips—

“But you look positively _ravishing_ in red.”

Tim opens his mouth, to say something, _anything_ , but instead of words, bright red blood spills over Ra’s thumb, staining the delicate gold hemming of his dress. There’s more, Tim thinks faintly, as he collapses against Ra’s shoulder. Spurting from his throat, some even manages to land on Ra’s face, but most of it seeps out slowly, as Tim rasps and chokes, soaking into his dress, through the layers of cloth. His new husband holds him close, even as Tim struggles, handing the bloody knife that had slit his throat off to a waiting ninja. 

As the whispers from the perfectly still crowd slowly fade from his ears, edges of his sight blackening, feeling nothing but the terribly gentle press of Ra’s lips on his, Tim can’t help but think, as the blood finally wets his skin after sinking though the heavy layers, that it was a shame. The dress really had been beautiful.

***

Ra’s gazes down at his beloved, allowing the triumphant expression to finally cross his face as he traces one bloody finger on the edge of the wound, still gushing with blood, ruining Timothy’s gown. That was alright, though; soon, the dark red would mix with lurid green, creating a color far superior, one that was only worthy of gracing his chosen bride.

His little robin’s red is still beautiful, though, as it has always been for the Demon’s Head. Ra’s allows himself this small indulgence, dipping his head into Timothy’s snowy white neck to press a soft kiss to the warm skin, tasting his beloved’s sweet blood. 

A soft cough next to him makes him pause, _who dares—_ Pressing a final kiss to the boy’s jugular, the memory of a fading pulse, Ra’s straightens, one brow raised as he looks down upon the _fool_ who’d decided to interrupt his perusal of his finally won bride. 

The League’s runecaster winces, probably at the sight of the blood splattered across Ra’s face, and he makes a mental note to have him disposed of later. The man cowers, head turned to the floor. “The bindings effects will be greatest while the body is still warm, My Lord,” he says, voice small. 

Dismissing the urge to order the nearest assassin to kill the man (he does after all, still need him. But once he has touched his beloved’s skin, there would be no doubt of his imminent death), Ra’s signals for the officiant to bring forward a small hand-carved wooden table, just large enough that Timothy’s beautiful body could be laid upon it. 

Ra’s does not roll his sleeves up, like the runecaster; merely drags the blood already on his fingers over Timothy’s perfect cheekbones, staining them again that exquisite _red_. Dipping his fingers into the boy’s neck, Ra’s mirrors the ancient patterns on the other cheek, watching with barely concealed disdain as the shaking runecaster carefully pulls his bride’s dress off his arms and chests, pushes the skirts up so he can trace the patterns hidden in the henna adorning the pale skin with blood. 

It’s slow work, which is why two are, unfortunately, necessary to complete the task, before the body grows cold. The assembly remains still, only Ra’s best trained (and of course, the runecaster, on whom he had apparently been much too lenient with) having been allowed to attend the wedding, as he traces the warmth over Timothy’s lashes, sealing those blues shut. And as intoxicating the Detective’s eyes were, Ra’s can admit to himself that he can not _wait_ to see them open with emeralds as their centerpiece.

The good thing about being the Demon’s head is that he does not _have_ to wait. Taking one final taste of Timothy’s skin, he turns to the runecaster, barks, “Are we finished?”

The man finishes painting the final character, a line drawn over both of those pale ankles, fetters to keep the boy chained to the demon forever, before scuttling back, tilting his head back down again. “Y—yes, My Lor—”

The assassin with a hand on the handle of the sword buried in the runecaster’s chest quickly jerks the man’s useless body back, so as to keep the dirty blood dripping from the steel from mixing with the empire’s new Queen’s. As the man’s body was taken away, Ra’s pulls his bloody robes off, leaving them to pool on the floor and himself in nothing but loose pants as he cradles Timothy’s body in his now bare arms. 

Carefully, so as not to smudge the quickly drying spellwork, Ra’s turns away from the subordinates, and faces the very fuel of the name he had laid claim to. The Lazarus. He walks, takes the few steps required to take them from the altar to the green water, bare footsteps echoing through the great hall, just softer than the trail of ruby being made from the loss of life to that which will grant it once again. A few drops fall into the glimmering steam of the Pit, where they hiss, fizzing out.

Ra’s smiles. What he had so long hoped for, ever since that night he had seen his Detective framed by Gotham’s moonlight, sparkling pieces of broken glass his backdrop, was so close to being in his grasp… he can practically _taste it_.

He takes four steps into the water, until he is waist-deep. Then he lets Timothy go.

Their audience has started to murmur, but silences again at Ra’s hand. His eyes, however, are only for his beloved, as he sinks below view, the Lazarus bubbling, taking him, making him _Ra’s’_ —

Timothy _screams_ , arching out of the water, and for a moment Ra’s could swear he has never seen anything more beautiful. Immediately, his arms lock around his boy, as he begins to thrash, eyes wide open and _wild_.

They’re dark turquoise, stark in otherwise bloodshot eyes. Ra’s can hardly help the victorious grin as his gaze lands upon Timothy’s neck, free of all the disfigurements that had once plagued it, all but _one_. The same is true for the rest of the boy’s body; free from every claim but Ra’s’.

The Pit, of course, has affected the boy’s mind too, given by the deep red grooves his Detective is attempting to claw into his chest with a wild frenzy—it was best to let him work it out, but first…

Ra’s slammed the struggling boy into the water before his dexterous hands could wrap around his neck, holding him under for a count of two hundred and eighty seconds before pulling him back up, gripping him close as he gasps and splutters. 

“You are mine,” he snarls, and he can practically see the flash of realization pass in his Detective’s brilliant mind, that the blood flowing through his veins, the blood Ra’s can still taste on his teeth, has bound him. That the compulsion cannot be broken so long as he is alive—and Ra’s is the demon who has tamed death itself. The boy turns his head, out of fear or disgust, Ra’s does not care, just grabs his face and wrenches it back. “You are mine, and you _will_ submit.”

It takes Timothy five more minutes of the green in his lungs that he finally lets go of that ever so stubborn will, eyes now shining with the magic of the Lazarus thrumming through him. And when Ra’s asks, “Who are you?”—

“Yours.”

He presses his lips once more to his bride, who opens much more easily for him now, covered in dried blood and the tattered remains of his wedding dress. Still, he can feel the tremors running beneath the boy’s skin.

Well, it is their wedding day, after all; and who is Ra’s not to indulge his wife on such a special occasion? 

“Go on,” he whispers into his beloved’s ears, setting him on his feet. Watches as he climbs out of the pool, rubies contrasting with the green tinge of his gown, eyeing the crowd, before turning back to him.

Ra’s flicks his hand, climbing out to stand beside his beloved, as a clear split forms in between the congregation of ninja, half of the men moving to stand in front, in clean, uniform lines. 

“Go on,” Ra’s repeats, when he notices the boy still waiting for his order. “They are your promised bride gift, after all.”

Timothy smiles at him, teeth even sharper than his eyes, before he finally _strikes_.

**Author's Note:**

> if u saw smthi forgot to tag, feel free to drop it down in the comments or hmu at tumblr(robinlikeitshot)  
> hope u liked it folks, thinking about posting another rastim work with a few of my mini snippets in it if u guys like this one. if you liked it, pls do leave a comment down below, i love recieving them and are probablyeighty percent of why i write dkskkj  
> have a good new years!!!


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